Rose backed up fast, bumping into the bench, stumbling and running toward the bathroom. There was nowhere to go in there, just the sink and the stall and a tiny window high up.

Out in the locker room, the door banged. Footsteps. It couldn’t be Muriel—she’d never do a thing like this. It was Christmas, not Halloween.

But even as Rose thought it couldn’t be Muriel’s idea of a joke, she was hoping it was. Her anger was rising, ready to be furious, praying to be furious with her.

There was only one place to hide in the room, a stupid useless place, a dead end. She went to it anyway, pushing at the stall door, a place to get into for shelter. The door moved inward an inch and stopped. She pushed harder but it wouldn’t budge. Had Muriel stored the costumes in there? The footsteps were still coming, slow and regular, as if they wanted to provide time for panic.

Using the strength adrenalin was pumping into her veins, Rose pulled the door toward her instead. Please, please. With a great groan of stripped metal, the hinges turned backwards on themselves, and the door swung out.

Muriel was sitting on the toilet. She was wearing her black leotards and her paisley shawl. She was sitting very upright, her knees together, her hands folded primly in her lap. She seemed to be smiling. The faint scent of her expensive, spicy perfume mingled with the stronger, mordant smell of blood. Her throat had been cut from ear to ear.

“Hello, Rose,” a voice said from behind.

Twenty-seven

It was Muriel dead and Muriel alive at the same time.

But, of course not, no, the jaw was more square, showed the bluish tinge of a beard. The eyes were glittery, weird, maniac eyes.

“Surprise!” he said.

“You’re twins.”

“You should know all about that, Rose. Are we one, or are we two? Does one live for the other or by the other, or perhaps in spite of the other?” His glittery eyes darted about, came to rest on Muriel’s body. He frowned. “Come away, let’s close the door on that.”

“I didn’t know Muriel had a brother,” she managed to say, knowing from somewhere deep within her that it was important to keep talking in a normal way. But her voice shook.

“Little Rose is scared.”

“I’m not scared.”

“Yes, you are!” His voice was churlish, as if he needed her to be scared. Was that how his victims had behaved? If she acted afraid would she die … or live? No way was he going to get her to grovel. She thought: I’ll just turn around and walk out of here. Let him try to stop me.

His hand came out like a claw and pulled her back.

“Let’s talk,” he said. “I feel close to you.”